1947
Seventy years ago
my great-grandmother called Patiala home.
A city of glittering palaces and crumbling ruins
dotted with mosques, temples and fortresses
stretching out to the East.
There was a silent, unspoken charm about the city.
What Hindu, what Muslim, what religion, what bastion
of humanity? Dogmas were left at home during weddings
and funerals. Brothers in arm and brothers unharmed.
That was Patiala. For my Nani Ji anyways.
Thirty years later, Patiala is strewn;
not with garlands, not with flowers
not with papers celebrating the white man’s departure
but with bloodied bodies atop each other
with headscarves and wooden trucks
An erasure of memories, erasure of a legacy —
My Nani Ji too, joins the exodus.
Many moons later,
Eight children and two husbands later,
Settled on the other side of the border
an invisible line distancing her from the
home she once knew.
A stark contrast to the fields of Patiala
Two Hyderabads on either side of the fence,
yet this one felt different.
Dusky-skinned people in robes of all colours whizzed past her,
here they spoke in remote tongues.
Not Punjabi, neither Urdu.
A sweet mix of the two instead — Sindhi
Patiala is now an ebb in her body
A distant memory.
These roads were unfamiliar.
Ancient men roamed these lands
in search for the ultimate Truth.
Dervishes once swayed in its very streets
and saints were laid to rest in its grounds.
From a Syed to a Bhatti,
From Patiala shalwar to Sindhi ajrak
From Ravi to Indus
and from the gardens of Patiala,
to the deserts of Hyderabad.
with love, from one home
to another.
